Family Secrets
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: CHAPTER 2 UP NOW! The sequel to Family Ties. The Ishtars' problems are far from over! Bandit Keith is back, wanting revenge. Rishid's father is still at large. And Marik is having disturbing dreams of the past. Kind reviews welcome.
1. Prologue: Haunted

**Yu-Gi-Oh!  
  
Family Secrets  
  
By LuckyLadybug  
  
Notes: The story is mine, the characters are not, and this is going to have sibling cuteness But it will also be dark. And it's the sequel to Family Ties. Get reacquainted with that one if it's unfamilair to you   
  
And . . . on a very serious note, this story does deal with the abomination that is child abuse and molestation. It's a very real evil that exists, and though I've tried to portray things tastefully and don't do anything graphic, it still may offend some people. Please, if anyone knows of a child in a situation where they really are or might be being treated wickedly, don't hesitate to tell someone in authority about it.**  
  
**Prologue**  
  
The lone figure sat at the darkened bar, guzzling another glass of the strong liquor he had ordered. Anger flamed in his ice blue eyes as he slammed the drinking utensil back down on the counter. Things were no better than they had been before. Once he had thought he had been close to accomplishing what he so desperately desired, but those hopes had all been in vain. He hadn't gotten the revenge he so desperately longed for. Still he lived in his humiliation, his defeat. He was known only to the public as the ex-national dueling champion, the one Pegasus had publicly humiliated.  
  
But there was someone else he wanted revenge on now. He clenched his fists tightly at the remembrances that came to him. He couldn't forget how he had been treated. Never would he forget. And no matter how long it took, now he vowed to himself that he would have his revenge this time. Nothing would stand in his way.   
  
The television in the corner above the bar lighted up suddenly with a report. But it wasn't the report that caught this man's interest. No, he had seen plenty of news pieces just like it and just as boring. It was the images that he found intriguing, one in particular. There were three tan-skinned people being pictured on the screen. He knew two of them, but was only concerned with one.  
  
"Ishizu Ishtar, seen in company with her two brothers, now unveils the latest exhibit in the Domino Museum," the anchorwoman was intoning. "The strong man to the right is Rishid Ishtar, the elder brother. And the boy on the left, the teenager, is Marik Ishtar. They seem to be enjoying themselves. They're a very close-knit family, I'm told. Marik has some dark secrets in his past, but he seems to be doing his best to make up for whatever wrong it was that he committed." And how did this woman know anything about Marik's past? That remained to be seen.  
  
The man perked up, staring intently at the images that flashed across the screen. Marik Ishtar . . . a teenager . . . only a teenager about sixteen. And yet he was the one hated with every fiber of this tortured soul's being.   
  
A slow smirk began to form. An evil, deadly smirk. A smirk filled with the foretelling of every treacherous thing its owner wanted to do. "Marik Ishtar. . . . It looks like you've got a family. I wonder what you'd think if they were both taken from you." He stood up, determination flashing as he placed the dark sunglasses over his eyes. "I don't care if you're 'good' now. That makes no difference to me, punk. I'm not gonna be shown up by just a pathetic kid. No one mind-controls me without gettin' their just desserts." And with that Bandit Keith slowly walked out of the bar to plot his revenge.  
  
**Marik**  
  
_Screams. . . . Piercing. Bone-chilling. Screams that echoed through every corridor of this Heaven-forsaken Hades on earth. They sent chills all up and down my spine. I was an observer in this scene and yet . . . no . . . I wasn't. . . . I was living it.  
  
The screams stopped. A small body tensed, braced for whatever punishment might come next. It was a boy. . . . Somehow I knew it was a boy. . . . His entire frame shook with sobs and with the pain as he clutched the edges of the stone he was tied to. Blood spilled down over his back. He had been tortured.  
  
Then a tall, shadowed figure stepped into view. With a dampened cloth he wiped the blood away and began bandaging the child's back, but I could see this boy feared him. Every time his hands touched the flesh, the small body jerked, trying desperately to get away. But he could not.  
  
I wanted to run forward, to enter this scene and rescue the boy, but I was powerless. I could feel what he was feeling. Even then, invisible hands were upon my back, despite the fact that I was not truly wounded. I jerked myself, but it was no use. The feel of the touch remained.   
  
I forced myself to gaze ahead. Surely, I thought, this child's misery is over now. Someone he loves will come for him and all will be well. But I couldn't know how wrong I was. His misery would only get worse.   
  
The tall man sneered, gazing down at the trembling form. And never have I seen such a look of pure evil on anyone, before or since. Something flickered there that never should have existed. But his hands reached out, touching, carressing, in a way that no one should ever touch a child.  
  
The boy screamed again. His voice was already almost hoarse, but still he screamed and struggled. His weak body was helpless against the strong ropes binding him down. Frantically he tried to curl in a ball. "NO!! No, Father, stop!!"  
  
Everything froze in that one moment. Father. . . . No. . . . No, it couldn't be. . . . That man couldn't be his father. It wasn't possible! My fists clenched.  
  
And suddenly the scene became clear to me. I knew the boy because he was me. The man was my father.   
_  
My eyes fly open. Gasping, I sit up straight in bed, clutching the edges of the quilt. My hair is damp with perspiration, sticking limply to my face and neck. What was that?! Why in Heaven's name would I dream something like that?!  
  
Slowly I climb out of bed and wander into the bathroom adjoining my bedroom. The images replay in my mind as I splash cold water on my face and then gaze at my reflection in the mirror. The scars under my eyes seem to stand out, more so now than ever. I remember the day I received them. I remember it all too well. It was the same day my back was branded with the images and hieroglyphics I will carry for the rest of my life.  
  
The water falls from my hands as I fall forward, gazing deeply into the mirror. That was the scene my dream had been depicting, I realize. I had just been scarred for life . . . but according to the dream, it was in more ways than one.  
  
"No," I whisper, shaking my head vehemently. "That isn't true! That didn't happen!" In spite of everything my father had done, he hadn't molested me. In a fit of rage, I suddenly send the contents of a shelf crashing to the floor. Why am I plagued with these thoughts lately? This wasn't the first time I have had that dream. It has come to me for five nights straight now. Is it because of what happened to me in the museum last month? Is it because I had been at the mercy of a fierce, zombie-like creature who had nearly been about to have her way with me before I destroyed it?  
  
I survey the scene before me, taking in the calamity I've just created. Then I drop to my knees, gathering up the fallen items. For sometime after that had happened, I had still suffered the lasting effects from the agony I'd felt then. It had been traumatic for me, but even now I wonder why it had had to send me over the edge, teetering on the brink of my sanity. I'm supposed to be strong. I'm not supposed to let anything disturb me in that way. For if my sanity starts to slip . . . I don't know what will happen to me then. I'm afraid of myself sometimes, though Ishizu and Rishid always encourage and comfort me.  
  
Rishid. . . . Dear, kind, loyal Rishid. . . . This has all been hard on him as well. I frown as I shakily set the toothpaste, shampoo, and other products back on the shelf. Rishid found out that his birth parents are still living. His mother claims she left him by the well at the instruction of a mysterious man who knew she needed to keep Rishid away from his crazed father. Rishid doesn't know whether to believe her or not, though he's tried to be civil. But his father is a wicked man. My fists clench. Rishid has so much to worry about already. I can't add to that with my nonsensical dreams.  
  
"Marik?"  
  
I freeze at the sound of my elder brother's voice. I don't turn, I can't turn, but I feel him come up to me. When I look up, I can see his concerned expression in the mirror. Gently he reaches for my arm and lifts it slightly, his eyes narrowed.  
  
"What is it?" I ask, genuinely baffled.  
  
"You're bleeding," he replies softly.  
  
I follow his gaze. He's right. There's a trail of blood all the way down to my elbow. But the actual wound itself doesn't seem too serious. I hadn't even noticed at all until now. I sigh in resignation and irritation. "Some things fell off the shelf," I say, telling only a half-truth. "The razor must have cut me."  
  
Rishid shakes his head and opens the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, removing the first aid kit. "Something is worrying you, brother," he says quietly, dabbing an antiseptic pad along my arm. "I can sense it."  
  
I smile a bit. It's useless trying to keep anything from Rishid. He has been around me longer than anyone else has, since he even endured the horrors of Battle City at my side. Sometimes I feel he knows my feelings even better than I do.  
  
Rishid chuckles softly as he places a bandage over the cut. "You know . . . if you are hoping to keep me from worrying, Marik, I'm afraid it's too late for that. I do worry, and if you don't tell me what troubles you now, I will only continue to do so."  
  
"You're impossible, Rishid," I retort, but I'm smiling. I cross my arms, leaning against the bathroom wall. "But it's nothing to worry about. Only a dream." My heart seems to race again at the memory. I cannot stand my father after what he did to me and to my siblings. The thought that he even ever possibly did something else on top of the already endless torture is too much to bear. Wouldn't I remember if he had tried to do that to me?! I remember everything else. I remember him tying me down to the slab and stabbing the hot knife into my flesh. And I remember him beating Rishid endlessly, hatred visible in his eyes. Ishizu he had usually ignored completely through the years, though when he had acknowledged her, he was never kind.  
  
"Only a dream? Marik, you're trembling!" Rishid frowns, coming to stand in front of me. I gaze up at him, almost as if I'm really noticing his presence here for the first time. His face is etched with concern for me, his younger brother. It's strange. . . . To anyone who doesn't know him, Rishid would look fierce and forebidding—someone to be avoided at all costs. And yet he's actually such a gentle person by heart. He has been my shelter, my peace of mind, for so many years. The tattoos on the left side of his face, which to most would seem to indicate a very dangerous man and one who can take pain easily, are in reality one of the most sacred symbols between the two of us, something that shows Rishid's true nature of selflessness and unconditional love.  
  
"Marik?"  
  
His voice comes to me again. And I shake my head firmly, the earrings jangling as I do so.  
  
"I'm fine, Rishid," I say quietly, though inside I couldn't feel less fine. I want to scream, I want to fling myself into my brother's arms and demand for him to tell me what I saw isn't true. I want him to tell me that No, I have never been harmed in such a treacherous way. But I'm afraid of the answer. If Rishid does know, he might have been keeping it from me so as not to make my burdens heavier.  
  
Rishid knows my words are empty and untrue. He can hear the emptiness in them, as I can hear it. But he doesn't press the matter. Instead he simply hugs me close, allowing me the comfort of being wrapped safely in my brother's arms. He wishes I would speak, but he won't force me. He would never force me. Rishid also knows that I will tell him if I ever feel ready.  
  
Unspoken words seem to pass between us then. We have a mental bond, but it doesn't always work. It seems, though, that it works when we most need it.  
  
_Were you thinking about . . . her?_ Rishid asks, meaning the zombie.  
  
_No,_ I reply. There is a long pause. _Our father._  
  
Rishid draws his breath in sharply. Then he hugs me close again and I am safe and secure. Nothing will happen to me while he is here. Nothing at all.   
  
I embrace him in return, hearing the comforting sound of his heart beating. In my mind, I feel as though I'm a child again, in need of the love and protection I know my brother will give me. Of course . . . I'm still in need of it. I'm always in need of it. In the back of my mind something is pressing, telling me that once I feared my siblings wouldn't love me anymore. But I shove it away. Whatever it is, I don't want to remember it. I want to stay in the present.  
  
"Come, Marik," Rishid says then. "You need your sleep."  
  
I didn't even realize how tired I am until Rishid's words bring me to the knowledge that I am falling asleep standing up. Mechanically I allow him to guide me back to the bed and the soft sheets and pillows. I am dozing before I even completely lay down. There is so much I wanted to tell my brother and to ask him . . . but it will have to wait. My body refuses there to be any other options.  
  
**Rishid**  
  
I sit beside him long after he has fallen asleep. What plagues his poor mind so? I know there is something. He dreamt of Father . . . the first one I knew to call "Father" but who couldn't have treated either of us or Ishizu any less like his children than he did. Marik has suffered so much. It burdens my heart that this is so, but it is. I do not know of anyone else who has singlehandedly come through all that he has.  
  
Marik seems to be dreaming peacefully now. He is still, his chest rising and falling slowly and normally as he clutches at the pillow. I cover him more fully with the quilt as it slips down his bare shoulders. He never sleeps with a shirt on.  
  
My thoughts start to turn to my own pain . . . to what I have been fearing ever since our dastardly experience back in Egypt when I met my birth father. I have been fearing that he will come back and torment us further. I know that he will, but I do not know when. He will not leave us alone until I have opened the door to the riches that only I can unlock. But I will not assist him. Even if he harms my siblings, it would only dishonor them to help with my father's foul plans.  
  
And what of Halima, my birth mother? I suppose if nothing else, I must be grateful to her for bringing me into the world, even though she did leave me at the well. But then, if she had not done so, I would never have met my siblings . . . nor the one whom I consider my true mother. I frown. But also I could have died. I don't know whether the story she told me is truthful, though now that I've seen the treachery of my father I could possibly believe it.  
  
Marik murmurs softly in his sleep, gripping the pillow tighter. I smile in gentle amusement as I watch him. I am glad to see him rest. It is actually quite rare for him to do so completely, unless he is absolutely exhausted.  
  
"He dreams."  
  
I look up at the sound of Ishizu's voice. She smiles, walking into the room delicately and sitting on the edge of the bed as well. But then she looks up at me and I see the flicker of discomfort in her blue eyes.  
  
"I have dreamed as well, Rishid, but my dreams were not pleasant." She speaks softly, not wanting her voice to intrude in on Marik's slumber.  
  
I follow her out into the hall. "What were your dreams about?" I ask. She sounds urgent. I wonder if her dreams were about the same thing Marik dreamed of earlier—our father. Or if they could have been about my father's latest treachery, whatever that may be.  
  
Ishizu takes my large hands into her small, soft ones. "Marik is troubled, Rishid," she tells me. "I have been sensing it the last few nights. Now my dream confirms it." She sighs sadly. "But it does not tell me what torments his heart and soul, though it gave a vague suggestion. In the dream, I saw him wandering through our old home in Egypt. He came upon a younger version of himself and the two gazed at each other as they walked past. Then the younger Marik turned and fled down a corridor, weeping. Our Marik followed him, confused." Ishizu frowns now, as do I. That is an odd dream. What could it be symbolic of? There is more than one possible interpretation.  
  
"Marik never found his younger self. Our father . . . intercepted him." Ishizu looks up into my eyes and I see the immense sadness and worry within hers. "Father reached out and restrained him from moving, pulling him close and crushing our brother against his chest. Marik screamed, fighting him, but . . ." Her usually calm demeanor is gone, replaced by tears at the memory of her dream. "Father told him he would suffer for not continuing on the Tomb Keepers. Then he seemed to knock Marik unconscious. And my dream ended."  
  
I stare at her, dumbfounded. The dream sounds treacherous. Does it mean our father has come back from the dead to torture Marik in his dreams? I don't understand.  
  
"Oh Rishid. . . ." Ishizu bites her lip, the tears still spilling over from her eyes. "We returned home that time and now . . . now it seems what happened there is haunting us again. We cannot escape!" I can see she has sunk into despair. Normally Ishizu is not like this. It breaks my heart to see her so sad. But of course I can understand her sadness. I feel it as well.  
  
Slowly I reach out, gathering her into my arms. "We will escape," I reassure her. "We will find out exactly what is troubling Marik and help him overcome it."  
  
She clings to me, feeling helpless at first. But then she seems to relax slightly, a soft smile gracing her features. Perhaps she believes what I have said. But do I believe it? Do I believe my own words? Can we truly ever escape the horror that was our past? I know that if we had not gone through what we did, we might not even be as close as we are. I am grateful for the past in that respect, but if it keeps coming back to harm us in the present, then I am not grateful for that. I know how upset Marik had seemed earlier. I also have seen his troubled spirit the last few days. But only tonight has any light at all been shed on the mystery of why.   
  
A rumble of thunder claps outside and the both of us are momentarily startled. But then we relax, turning to look back in the room at our younger brother. He is still sleeping, unaware of all around him. What lies in store for us—and especially him—tomorrow? 


	2. Long Lost Words

**Chapter One**

**Ishizu**

The next morning dawns fairly peacefully, but I am not at peace. Sunlight sneaks through my window, gracing the room until it has reached the bed where I am. When it touches upon my face, I awaken completely from the partial slumber I am in. And again return the memories of the previous night. The memories I have been dreaming of now.

Something is haunting my younger brother Marik. Rishid and I have both seen this, but we do not know how to help him when he won't speak of it. So often he has tried to keep his feelings bottled up inside, afraid that to let them out would be weak. My heart breaks for him. It seems that some of the wounds our father inflicted may never truly heal. Though Marik knows Rishid and I would never, ever punish him for being scared or frightened, he remembers that Father did. He remembers all the pain and anguish that was poured upon all three of us and that he vowed at last that he must always be strong. What he does not fully realize is that showing fearful or sad emotions is not a sign of weakness.

Slowly I climb out of the bed and cross the room to the window overlooking our backyard. The sun kisses the grass and trees calmly, never suspecting the uneasiness within these walls. I lean against the window slightly, my mind unwillingly turning back to our old life in Egypt. I had been allowed out of the underground home several times, since I was not the long-awaited heir. Before Marik had been born I had seen sunlight, flowers, even televisions and motorcycles. But after my brother's birth our father began instigating the harsh rules of the Tomb Keeper clan. Marik was never allowed out, and after a while, neither were Rishid or I. The first time Marik had seen the sunlight was when he was eleven years old, on one of the darkest days of all our lives. I shut my eyes tightly. I have no desire to remember that now.

Marik has been ashamed of what happened last month. In the past, I have sensed it in his behavior. For days afterward he had retreated completely into himself, barely speaking at all. He felt that he had failed where he shouldn't have, but in reality he had come through for us when we needed him the most. Though he had been fearful of zombies since that one had attacked him, he had bravely descended into an entire nest of them when they attacked us as we were fleeing our home. He had been much more concerned about saving us than he had been about his own frightened feelings.

But are the past month's events truly what trouble his heart now? I cannot be certain. However, the dream of him meeting his younger self and then our father returned again when I went back to sleep after talking with Rishid. Somehow our past is what is torturing him. Something in it has returned to his mind and heart.

In determination I straighten, preparing to go check on him and perhaps try to gain knowledge about what is happening to him. But I am certain I will not find out.

* * *

When I come to Marik's room, I find him still asleep and burrowed deep within the gentle covers. The pillow is held tightly in his grasp and he is breathing softly. He seems peaceful enough. I smile at the sight. So rarely did he sleep peaceably in Egypt. And then there had been Battle City. . . . I sigh, deciding to enjoy the peace while it is here to behold.

Rishid comes and stands in the doorway with me. "Marik awoke not that long ago," he tells me quietly. "I could tell he had been having another dream, but he wouldn't say much of what it contained." He crosses his arms, a tender look coming over his strong face as he gazes at our beloved younger brother. "He did say that he had seen his younger self and that the child seemed to be crying and beckoning to him."

I frown. Though the dream sounds strange, this makes me believe all the more that something from Marik's past is attempting to come forth. But what could such a thing be? I had thought—had hoped—that between Rishid and I, we knew all of Marik's secrets and experiences. Has he been keeping something from us both? Or perhaps—more likely—this something has been kept from Marik as well, locked deep in the recesses of his mind. Now something happened that has triggered the remembrances. Could it have been what happened last month? If so, what could it have triggered?

Rishid puts his arm around me gently. He says nothing, but from his comforting touch I know that he believes we will find out what is happening to our brother.

"Halima called."

I start at his sudden words. He speaks in such a calm tone, though I am certain he doesn't feel calm about this occurrence. Halima hasn't tried to contact him for over a month now. Why does she suddenly want his attention again? I do not know that I trust the woman. Her story, perhaps, could make sense in light of what we now know about Rishid's father. But she could only be fabricating it all to attempt to redeem herself in Rishid's eyes. "What did she say?" I ask softly.

Rishid stares ahead, the emotionless mask that he wears so often coming over him again now. "She wants to tell me more about my father and about myself," he replies. He focuses on Marik's sleeping form. "She said she will come sometime in the afternoon. But what could she possibly reveal about me? She knows nothing about me." His tone has grown dark, belying his true anger toward Halima. "She was never there for me. She abandoned me when I was an infant."

I simply embrace him in reply.

Marik whimpers in his sleep, bringing both of us to attention. He clutches at the pillow as if it is his only lifeline to reality. Then his terrified, heartbreaking words fill the room as he cries out in Arabic.

"No! No, Papa, stop!" He tenses, curling up tightly in a ball. In a moment he is weeping, the tears spilling down from his firmly shut eyes and onto his pillow. "Leave me alone!" he pleads, his voice shaking with the agony. "Just leave me alone!"

Instantly both Rishid and I come to him. I touch his shoulder gently, attempting to wake him. "Marik? It is us. Father is not here." I wonder what he is dreaming of. To my knowledge, Marik has been able to put the ritualing ceremony behind him. Could something have made him dream of it again? Or . . . or is this something else?

Marik flings his arm out at me, attempting to shove me back. He is still lost deep in his nightmare, unaware of my presence. My heart is pricked. Gently I reach for his hand, holding it firmly between my own. "It is Ishizu, Marik," I whisper. "It is your sister."

Rishid watches in silence, his golden eyes filled with anger toward our father. "Marik?" he says at last, laying his strong hand on Marik's scarred back. Our brother tenses even more, fearing that it is Father touching him. I bite my lip.

But Rishid is not willing to give up. He leans down, whispering softly in the ancient Egyptian language. I can only barely hear what he is saying. "Be at peace, my brother. I am here, as is Ishizu. No harm will come to you while we are here." His voice lowers further and I cannot hear what he says next.

I smile as I feel Marik starting to relax now. Rishid is almost always able to calm his troubled heart. They have shared so many years together, even more than I have shared with them. Rishid was the one accompanying Marik all throughout Battle City. And Rishid carved those marks into his face in order to share Marik's pain. Undoubtedly they are extremely close.

Once someone asked me if I was jealous of the close relationship my two brothers share. Of course I am not. Marik and I have our own special bond, as do Rishid and I. But Rishid knows more about Marik's pain than even I could. He was with Marik through all of his darkest hours. It is only fitting that Rishid is the one to calm Marik now if he is remembering once again what Father did to him. I am able to comfort him at times as well.

Slowly Marik's eyes flutter open. He gazes about, focusing on us both. Then he takes a deep breath, his shoulders shaking, and rolls onto his back, gazing at the ceiling. Tears sneak from his eyes and roll down the sides of his face. I am certain he is not aware of them. Still he seems lost in whatever dream he was having.

"Marik?" I call softly. When he doesn't respond, I reach out to brush his bangs back, a comforting gesture I had done often when he was small. What could be wrong? What could be tearing at our brother's peace so viciously? If ever I wished my Millennium Tauk would work, I wish it would now. But I do not even have it. Still it is in the possession of Rishid's birth father. He stole it from me after abducting me last month. Since we do not know where he is, we do not know how to go about finding it.

Marik closes his eyes, willing the tears to stop. Indeed, he has noticed them. Slowly he pulls himself into a sitting position, running his hands through his hair in desperation. The scars on his back become painfully visible again as he does this. Always he will carry those marks with him through life. So much of his personality was changed when he received them. But now, after Battle City, so much of it has become unburied once more. He has been the sweet child Rishid and I remember from years past. "I was dreaming," he says at last, not offering an explanation as to what he saw. He shudders, obviously disturbed by the experience.

Rishid looks at him with concern. "But about what, my brother?" he asks softly. Slowly he sits on the edge of the bed, wishing that Marik would look up.

Marik shakes his head. "It was nonsense," he replies quietly, still studying the folds of his quilt. "None of it could have happened." He grips a handful of the material, quaking once more.

I reach out, laying my hand over his. "None of what could have happened, Marik?" I want him to tell us so badly. If only he would, perhaps we would be able to quell his fears! We might be able to reassure him that, No, what he had seen wouldn't or couldn't have happened.

But he offers no such information. At last he looks up, his eyes bright and seemingly normal, though I easily pick up on the sadness and fright within. "Don't worry, sister," he tells me. "I know it's all in my head." In a lower voice he adds, "It must be because of what happened to me last month."

Rishid and I can only look at him and then each other helplessly. What does what happened last month have to do with our father? It doesn't make sense. _Oh, Marik, what plagues your heart and soul so?!_

**Interlude**

Bandit Keith got off the bus slowly, hiding his ice blue eyes behind his favorite sunglasses. So here he was in Domino City again. The last time he had been here was when he had been mind-controlled and forced to duel against that punk kid Yugi Muto. Now he was back, ready and willing to deal out his cold brand of revenge upon his hated "master," Marik Ishtar. It wouldn't be hard to find out where he lived. And if all else failed, Keith could simply go to the Domino Museum and abduct the brat's sister. He would take great pleasure in doing such. And having a woman around sounded like a good prospect.

"You look like you've got something on your mind," a dark voice purred from the nearby shadows. Keith whirled, looking for the source of the sound, and saw a tall silhouette leaning against a wall. As the figure stepped out, Keith took in his naturally tanned skin, rough beard, and flashing golden eyes.

His eyes narrowed in distaste. "Is this town crawling with Egyptians or something?!" he burst out, pointing his index finger in irritation. People nearby turned to look, but no one apparently wanted to get involved with this scene.

Instead of being offended, the man let out a low chuckle. "I've been expecting you, Keith Howard," he announced, drawing closer. Now Keith could see that around his neck the man wore an object made of pure gold. It looked like some freakish piece of native jewelry to him—but upon seeing the mysterious eye in the center he remembered the same symbol on the Millennium Puzzle—and even upon the odd robe he had found himself wearing after being released from the mind-control! What was going on? Suddenly Keith was extremely attentive.

"You have?" he growled, looking at the man over the rim of his sunglasses. "Why? And how would you know I was coming? I guess you probably know why I'm here, too," he added in sarcasm.

The strange new acquaintance just smiled in an uneasy way. This was exactly what he wanted. Bandit Keith Howard would be the perfect pawn in his new scheme. "Yes," he sneered in assurance, "you're here to enact your revenge upon one Marik Ishtar for 'getting the better of you' and putting you under his mind-controlling powers." He inwardly was amused as he saw Keith's expression of dumbfounded disbelief. "And I'd be happy to tell you all about how I know and why I was expecting you. But this isn't the right place. Let's go somewhere . . . more private."

Keith frowned, unsure of whether to go with this person or not. But then, he decided, what could he lose? He definitely wanted the answers to his questions. No one had known that he was coming here to get revenge, after all. Keith felt he needed to know how this man knew. And maybe, if he was lucky, this person would know exactly the best way that Keith could get at Marik.

And so Keith did follow, never realizing or caring that he was sealing several people's fates.

**Marik**

I sigh as I sit in the window seat, being bathed by the sunlight. I didn't even know what the sun felt like for eleven years of my short life. And for the next several years after that, I had yet lived in darkness, both physically and emotionally. Now I love to be in the sun, letting it soothe my flesh and sometimes cause me to doze from its warmth.

I want to tell Ishizu and Rishid about what I've been dreaming. I want to so badly. But I don't want to burden them with the strange images and implications. I know it's all fake. Father never did that to me! . . . Did he? I've gotten so confused these past days. Part of me is starting to doubt what is fact and what is fiction. It's a horrible feeling.

The sun touches me with its radiant beams, giving me the urge to lay down in the window seat and doze. I have no intention of actually going to sleep as I stare out at the tops of the trees through the glass of the window pane, but that's what seems to be happening. My eyes are closing, as if by some unseen force placing its finger over them and forcing them shut. I curl up slightly, hugging one of the cushions, and then I am lost again in my nightmare.

_The scene was different now. No longer were there any people around, but I was there, alone, walking down a deserted, ancient corridor. Everything looked so familiar and yet so surreal. Still I had the feeling of being in the scene but yet being detached from it._

_I walked around a corner, becoming aware of running feet somewhere nearby. As I passed under a flickering torch, a small figure came into view. He was sobbing almost hysterically, running as if to get away from some great evil that was chasing him. Tears splashed down from his eyes, darkening the cold floor and the off-white clothing he was wearing. As he ran, he suddenly crashed into me and fell backwards, sitting down hard on the floor._

_I frowned, kneeling down beside him. "What is it?" I asked, holding out my hand to help him up. For some reason he looked familiar to me . . . and yet he didn't. I couldn't place who he was, but I knew that I knew him. "What's wrong, child? Tell me. I swear I won't hurt you." _

_I watched as his small, tanned hand grabbed mine. Then, slowly, he looked up, my own lavender eyes staring back at me! This was me, as a child! Why hadn't I seen it before? "He's after me," the boy sobbed, not seeming to realize that he was gazing at the older version of himself._

"_Who is?" I demanded, helping him to his feet._

_Immediately he clung to me in terror. It was then that I saw the fresh wounds in his back, the wounds that I still bear now. They were just barely starting to heal, though of course they would leave scars. But some were oozing blood, having torn open again. "Papa," he whispered in a hushed voice. Occasionally I called him this, though usually the title I used was "Father." It sounded more formal, and he always liked formalities like that. He hated to be called "Papa."_

_My frown deepened. "He hurt your back, didn't he?" I asked, though of course I knew the answer._

"_Uh huh," the younger me replied, shuddering. "But . . . he . . . he hurt me in other ways, too. No one's gonna love me now! How . . . how can they?" He sniffled furiously, the angry, frightened tears continuing to fall. It's obvious what he meant. "I feel . . . I feel so filthy!" Again he looked up at me, the eyes bright and clear and full of an agony I cannot begin to describe. "But . . . there's nothing I can do!" he wailed._

_Suddenly I felt an anger come over me. "It's not true!" I screamed at him. "Father didn't do that to you—to me! It's all a make-believe illusion! Don't you understand?!" I pulled away from my younger self, glaring at him, as if wanting to convince me of this. But did I know it was really true?_

_The child looked down, studying the floor. "But . . . if it's an illusion," he said, looking up, "why would you have created it?" _

My eyes fly open and I am awake again, still laying in the window seat of my room. Disoriented at first, I nearly fall against the glass, but then I pull myself up, breathing heavily. _What is happening to me?! I feel like I'm simply going mad!_ It's all nonsense! I know it is!

As I did the previous night, I run into the bathroom, staring at my reflection. I look pathetic and pale, as if I don't know what to make of anything any more. Tears are running down my face, seemingly put there by the younger me I had been talking to in my dream. My eyes are wide and helpless—the eyes of a weak, confused person. And, without even quite realizing what I'm doing, I am overcome by a burst of anger and I plunge my fist into the glass, sending shards flying in every direction. Blood goes flying as well, but I ignore it, as I usually do.

Instead I grasp both sides of the sink, shaking, trying to ward off the madness that is coming over me. The tears come again, spilling freely, and splash around in the sink. "No," I whisper, "no. . . . Someone tell me it isn't true! TELL ME!" For, as I plunged my fist into the glass, something like a memory of a past incident has started to take shape in my mind. Or past _feeling_ would be more accurate. I feel a foul touch on my body and a cold chill goes up my spine. I am the only one in the room. And the touch, though real, is from the past, not now. What if . . . what if it is true? The younger me was right—why would I create such an abomination out of my own mind? The thought is preposterous! There's no background for such an illusion . . . unless it's actually real.

"Marik?!"

I hear Rishid vaguely and this time I turn to face him, my eyes most likely still wild and crazed. Blood drips from my cut hand, getting redness on the sink and on the floor. Rishid stares at it and at the broken mirror in alarm, then back at me.

"TELL ME!" I cry again, pointing my index finger at him shakily. "Tell me. . . ." I trail off, my shoulders slumping.

Rishid takes me into his arms. "Tell you what, Marik?" he asks softly, holding me as if I am the child that I indeed feel like. He doesn't ask about the mess or about why I broke the mirror. He waits patiently for me to speak again.

"Tell me that . . ." I look up at him desperately, the tears continuing to fall. _"That Father didn't molest me!"_

Rishid stares at me, every expression of surprise, shock, horror, and alarm coursing across his features. He seems to be trying to speak, but isn't sure how to get the words out.

"Please, Rishid," I sob, clinging to my strength, my anchor, my precious beacon of light—my elder brother. "Please! If you know the truth, please tell me, because it's driving me mad!" I bury my face in his shoulder.

Rishid rocks me gently. "Marik . . . no," he whispers, "of course it didn't happen. Of course it didn't. . . ." He lays a hand in my hair, holding me close. Somehow . . . I don't know why . . . but Rishid's words don't convince me. If it is true . . . maybe he never knew.


	3. Whisper Slowly to Me

**Rishid**

I hold my younger brother close in alarm, stunned and perplexed and filled with horror. He is so shaken . . . so completely petrified as he clings to me, clutching at my shirt. This . . . this must have what Marik was dreaming about! What he had been so reluctant to tell us was that he was having night terrors about his father molesting him! But why would he dream about such a thing? Was it because of last month? That experience had left him so distraught. . . . But somehow, something is telling me that while what happened then may have triggered this, it wasn't completely responsible.

I stare at the blood dripping down the back of Marik's poor hand. It is obvious he broke the mirror in a fit of rage—or perhaps desperation. The shards are scattered all around us now, and I must take great cautions so that Marik does not cut himself on any of them. I am certain that Marik must have knocked those items off his shelf last night, instead of them simply falling. But I do not blame him. He has been suffering again, but attempting so hard to do it in silence. It shatters my heart. Marik does not deserve such things. Why can he not simply have peace?

"Let me see your hand," I tell him quietly after a moment, when his shaking has somewhat ceased. I know he still wants me to hold him—I can see it in his eyes and in the way he doesn't want to let go of me—but his wounds must be tended to before they become infected. Then I will continue to offer whatever comfort I can.

"You're seeing it," Marik retorts, allowing me to raise his wrist and examine the cuts on the back of his hand and his fingers. "But Rishid . . ." He swallows hard, something obviously on his mind. He doesn't seem convinced that I am telling him the truth of the matter. But perhaps he has reason to doubt, after Ishizu and I both withheld the knowledge from him that it was the evil one, his Yami, who had truly killed Ishizu's and Marik's father. "Rishid . . . what if it happened . . . and you never knew?" he whispers finally. So he does not believe I am keeping truths from him again! But this thought makes me pause. _Why is he so intent on believing this happened?_ _Or worse . . . what if it possibly . . . honestly . . . did?_

I push that thought away before I entertain it too deeply. No! It did not happen to Marik. His father was a cruel, heartless man, but he hadn't molested his own son! I would have known if he had. _Wouldn't I?_

Carefully I turn on the water and hold Marik's hand under it for a moment, though he winces in protest. I smile slightly, patting it dry with a nearby towel, and then apply an antiseptic wipe. Memories of Marik as a child come to my mind as I do this. I see Ishizu and I both tending to various cuts and scrapes he had sustained from being too adventurous. He had always protested our attempts, saying he was quite well and didn't need to have the injuries sting from the cleaning. But we had always cleaned the wounds anyway, of course, and then would hold the boy close, making him forget the pain by telling him stories. If only it would be that simple now. If only I could take away this emotional pain of my brother's with just a short, fictional tale! "Why do you believe he did such a thing, Marik?" I ask him softly. "To my knowledge, he never did. I never believed he was the sort of person who would . . ."

"What is that sort of person, then, Rishid?" Marik responds forlornly. He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead he sighs, watching me clean his wounds with an almost blank expression. "I suppose you figured out that . . . I've been dreaming about it happening." He speaks matter-of-factly, but I can see the flicker of torment in his eyes.

"Yes," I reply quietly, glad to find that none of the cuts seem deep. But I bandage his hand lightly, sternly telling him with my eyes to leave the gauze on until the scabs have begun to form. When he was a child, Marik was always prone to remove the bandage before he should, complaining of it being too uncomfortable or too willing to provoke an itch. "Why didn't you tell us, Marik?" I have an idea as to why he kept his pain bottled up, but I want to hear it from him.

Marik looks down at the floor, studying his reflection in one of the larger mirror shards. "You already have so much to worry about, Rishid," he says sadly. "Halima . . . your birth father. . . . I didn't want to add to it all. And I know I don't remember Father ever . . . touching me like that. . . ." He swallows hard, trembling slightly at the memories from his dreams. "I must just be going crazy."

Instantly I look up, gently but firmly laying my hands on his shoulders. "No, Marik!" I say emphatically. "Your mind is very much intact." He had feared that his sanity was failing him after the incident with the zombie in the museum, but I had strived to convince him that such thoughts were absolutely not rooted in truth. He had been through something traumatic and couldn't be expected to just all of a sudden behave as he normally would. Now, if what happened then is making him dream of his father doing such abominations to him, he cannot think that it is because he is going mad!

"Then, why, Rishid?" Marik gazes at me, looking so broken and so helpless. Usually his voice rises in volume when he is greatly upset, but now he seems to have no strength to even begin to cry out. "Why do I have to keep being plagued like this?!" He gestures wildly in the direction of what is left of the mirror, but then his shoulders slump and his gaze falls. "And why," he says in a voice that I can barely hear, "why would I create such a delusion, Rishid? I don't see any logic in it. What if . . . what if it did really happen?" Then he tells me of the strange dream he had just before he had broken the mirror, of how he saw his younger self and spoke to him—and of what the younger Marik told him at the end of it.

I listen carefully, surprised and concerned. If Ishizu were overhearing, she would most likely say that it seemed almost a prophetic dream or a vision, something that wasn't just concocted from the depths of Marik's mind. But I myself am not certain. I don't want to admit that maybe for some reason, someone is trying to remind Marik of something treacherous that happened in his past. I don't want to admit that perhaps my brother has suffered things that not even I or Ishizu have ever known about. And I don't want to admit that perhaps his father was capable of doing such evils to a precious son he had already wronged greatly. It is too wicked a thought for me to even entertain.

"What's happening to me, Rishid?" Marik asks now. "What's going on? Either subconsciously something has been triggered that I myself haven't even remembered for years . . . or I'm off my nut. Those are the only explanations!" He grips at my shirt again, staring up into my eyes and pleading so desperately for a straight, concise answer. I can see the adoration of a younger brother in his eyes. He is longing for me, his elder brother, to be able to reassure him again and to put him at ease. But I am not certain how to do this. I am so saddened to admit it, but I do not know how to help my brother.

"You are not insane, Marik," I tell him again, firmly, once more gathering him into my strong arms. "Never think that! Your strength and your mental will have never ceased to inspire me. But now . . . I am afraid I don't know what the true answer is." I look at him compassionately, pain in my eyes for his pain. "We will find out, though," I add then. "I promise you, my brother, we will!"

Marik sighs, not looking convinced. And I do not blame him. For how, truly, can we find out? I am certain Ishizu knows nothing of the matter either, though of course I will speak with her about it. The man in question is dead and has been for five years. And I doubt highly that anyone else who lived in that underground city would know. What's more, the city itself is destroyed now because of Dr. Portman's bombs. The only way, it seems, that we could ever find out now is from Marik having more of these visions and then perhaps at last remembering whatever dark secrets are hidden in his mind and heart.

"It's hopeless, Rishid," Marik says aloud before pausing. Then he smiles a bit, having the first hint of peace that I've seen from him in a while. "But . . . there is one thing I do know for certain," he remarks, "and that's that you and Ishizu will stand by me, no matter what happens."

I smile as well. "Yes," I agree. "Always."

A shadow falls across the doorway and we both look up. Ishizu is standing there, looking concerned. She did not hear the mirror break, to my knowledge, so I am slightly curious as to her expression. She surveys the scene, taking everything in, and instantly comes to the conclusion that Marik has been distraught and that I have been trying to comfort him. Her eyes widen upon seeing the broken, blood-splattered glass across the floor. "What has happened in here?" she asks softly.

Marik sighs. "It's alright, sister," he replies. "I just . . . I was angry and I broke the mirror." He pulls away from me, trying to smile and show Ishizu that he's well.

Her gaze drifts to his bandaged hand. Slowly she steps closer, gently taking the hand in her own. "Marik," she whispers, "what is disturbing you?" I know how distraught she has been over our brother's obvious distress. But Marik will surely tell her, now that he's told me.

Marik looks down, letting Ishizu touch his injured hand. "Sister, I. . . ." He shakes his head, struggling for the right words. I lay my hand on his shoulder. Ishizu needs to know about this. I can see Marik is wanting to tell her, perhaps hoping that she knows the answer to his perplexities. He raises his gaze back up to hers again. "I've been having nightmares, Sister," he chokes out. "Nightmares . . . about Father. And . . . I'm afraid they're real."

Ishizu looks at him with the utmost compassion and understanding. "Marik, what is it?" she asks again, patiently, trying to encourage him along.

But before Marik has a chance to say anymore, a voice calls from downstairs. A familiar voice. "Odion?"

All of us freeze. _Halima. . . ._

Ishizu frowns. "That is right," she says, looking back toward the doorway. "She came a moment ago and I had her wait in the living room while I came to find you, Rishid. But when I saw . . . this . . . I forgot all about her presence." So that is why she looked distraught when she approached, I realize.

Marik also frowns, looking highly irritated. "What does she want?" he mutters. I remember that he didn't know she was planning to come today.

I sigh, hearing her call again. "To tell me more about myself," I tell him, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I feel. What could she possibly tell me of importance? I know perfectly well about myself. I know who I am and where I belong, things that for ages I was uncertain about. I am not a nameless servant. I have a surname now—the Ishtar name. Marik's and Ishizu's name. My name. I am their elder brother.

Ishizu pats my arm. "Perhaps at least she will volunteer useful information about your father," she suggests.

"He's a psychopathic nutcase," Marik retorts, heading for the door. "Not to mention greedy and not worthy to be Rishid's father." I can see he is more than slightly ruffled. He, indeed, bespeaks my own annoyance. As far as I am concerned, I have no true father. Both my adoptive father and now my biological father have proven to be cruel, wicked beings. An odd thought occurs to me as I and Ishizu follow after our younger brother.

We don't have any reason to celebrate Father's Day.

**Interlude**

Bandit Keith stood at the corner of the street, leaning on a lamppost. The strange man had given him his first assignment—follow the Egyptian woman who would come to visit the Ishtar residence. It seemed a boring thing to do, and Keith didn't see the need for it, but his contact was very insistent on it being done. And so Keith was doing it.

He glared at the Ishtar home through his dark sunglasses. So the kid was living in a fairly ritzy neighborhood now, probably because of that sister of his. And while his former master was living it up, Keith was practically broke! Of course, that was mostly because he had been spending all his money on alcohol and even drugs at times, but Keith didn't look at it that way. Pegasus had destroyed his reputation, Marik Ishtar had mind-controlled him, and it was all leading to Keith breaking down. He couldn't stand it when someone got the better of him.

What he didn't realize was that really, he _chose_ to let them get the better of him. He wouldn't have to react to things the way he did. But he did anyway.

He flicked a toothpick away into someone's nearby lawn. That woman had been in there for a long time now, it seemed to him. What was she doing? And who was she? The mysterious man hadn't explained any of that. Keith didn't even know his name. But he was promised both wealth and the revenge he desired if only he would assist in helping this person with his plans. So names could wait. Keith was desperate for his chance. And this man, who said that he eventually wanted Marik's older brother, had the perfect scheme for them to both get their desired ends.

Keith remembered how the tattoo face had always lingered around Marik, as if they were inseparable. If that man was taken from Marik, the boy would most likely be broken. Keith sneered to himself at the thought. Then Marik would know how it felt. And while Keith's contact did what he wished to the brother, Keith would set his sights on Ishizu. It hadn't been lost on him that she was a beautiful woman. And it had been a while since he had enjoyed the company of one.

"Soon," Keith growled, looking at the house again over the top of his sunglasses, "you're gonna have everything important to you taken away, Marik Ishtar. Just like what's been done to me!" He drew a pistol out of his belt and ran his hand over it, sneering to himself as he caught his reflection in the shiny black metal. He wouldn't use it right away. Maybe he wouldn't use it at all. But it intimidated people. He liked that aspect. He liked the feeling of being on the giving end of the intimidation instead of the receiving end. And he would intimidate Marik. He would break that punk's spirit so badly that he would wish he were dead.

**Marik**

Halima is waiting downstairs when we arrive. I stick my injured hand in the pocket of my black khaki pants, not especially wanting her to notice the bandages and wonder what happened. I'm not all that fond of her, but then, none of us really are. She abandoned Rishid, for Heaven's sake! And then she comes to him twenty-five years later with tales of how she was instructed by some stranger to leave Rishid by the well so that his father wouldn't find him. Maybe it's true. And then again, maybe it isn't. She could just be using Rishid's father as her excuse for being negligent. I wouldn't put it past her. She could even be working with the man!

"Hello, my son," she greets Rishid, seeming worry in her eyes. She greets me as well and I nod curtly in reply, seeing no need to do more.

"What is it you want?" Rishid growls, skipping all manner of greetings. Usually he is so polite. This tells me he's as irritated—or even more so—than I am and that his temper is wearing thin. I smirk slightly to myself. An angry Rishid is not something anyone should see, especially if they're on the receiving end of his anger.

Halima sighs, apparently realizing she isn't going to be getting a warm welcome. "Your father hasn't bothered you for the last month, has he?" she remarks quietly. Without waiting for an answer she continues. "He's about to strike again."

Rishid doesn't look impressed. "What makes you so certain?" he demands.

"Yes," I can't help but add. "Do you have access to his secret files and his mind? Or maybe he tells you his plans personally?" My eyes flash with the irritation I feel. "Maybe you're his special lackey, sent out to deliver messages to all his victims!"

Ishizu lays a hand on my shoulder, silently telling me to calm down and be quiet. _We should allow her to speak,_ her eyes and gentle touch tell me. _She may be bringing valuable information, no matter the reason for which she does so._ But I see displeasure for Halima in her eyes as well. Not even Ishizu, with her mild psychic powers, can sense if the woman is telling the truth. And without the Millennium Tauk the chance of determining it is even slimmer.

"He was my husband for many years," Halima replies evenly, not seeming distressed by my comments. "I know how his mind operates." She looks at Rishid pleadingly, wanting him to tell her that he will at least consider what she's about to say. Then she reaches out, touching his arm. "Odion, I am afraid he is going to attempt abducting either you or one of your siblings and that he will try to brainwash you!"

Rishid jerks back at her touch and then freezes in sheer alarm at her words. He stares at her in disbelief, his golden eyes wide as he searches for any hinting of lies in her words. Ishizu and I are also staring. But Halima seems to actually be speaking the truth this time. The fear I see manifested in her eyes doesn't seem to be make-believe, though it could be fear that we'll find out she _is_ lying. I clench my fists, forgetting to keep them both within the confines of my pockets.

"What would make him try that angle?" I snap. "And if he was going to take any of us, why would he bother with Ishizu or me? If he took Rishid and brainwashed him, he could just have him open the door to the treasures, which is what he claims he wants." Saying this leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, as I imagine poor Rishid truly being brainwashed, but it is a fact. If any of us were going to be taken, Rishid is the obvious choice. His father would have no logical reason to take Ishizu or me, unless he has other, hidden motives.

"Marik is right," Rishid speaks up icily, frowning at Halima. "Why would . . . _that man_ try to take Ishizu or Marik?!" He can't manage to call him "father." And I can't blame him. That blasted maniac is a father only in the biological sense of the word. Actually, neither Rishid or I—or Ishizu—has ever had a real father, someone who was kind and loving and tried to help and guide us in the right paths. We did have a real mother, but I never even knew her.

Halima sighs, looking exhausted. "He may decide that, rather than trying to just abduct you immediately, Odion—Rishid—he would take one of your siblings, like last time, to lure you to him. Then he would go through with brainwashing you when you came, though he might then also brainwash whichever sibling he took, just because he felt like it." She looks down, rubbing the back of her left hand. Right now she looks like a frail old woman, but I don't have much pity for her. "Then," she concludes, "he would have not one, but two slaves to do his bidding. And there isn't much hope the third sibling would escape his clutches. If he actually gets the treasure, his greed will only increase all the more."

Rishid continues to glare at her, but I can see that in his eyes is now mainly anger for his father. Then he half-turns away, crossing his arms. "I will keep it in mind," is all he says. But I know Rishid well enough to know that not only will he keep it in mind, he will be on high alert for the next few days. While outwardly he will not seem to behave any differently, he will be boiling with anger inside and want to stop his father before any disasters can ensue.

Halima seems to realize she won't get any further with the subject. She looks at Ishizu, as if wanting confirmation that her warning won't go unheeded. Ishizu nods vaguely, her blue eyes firm in expressing that, Yes, we won't ignore what was told to us. And of course we won't. I don't intend to let anything happen to either Ishizu and Rishid. For now the memories that have been plaguing me are pushed to the back of my mind. My brother and sister are more important.

Now Halima seems to smile a bit. "I remember when you were born," she says to Rishid, a fond, almost motherly expression coming into her eyes. "It was a dark December night, twenty-five years ago, two days before Christmas." She pauses, as if checking the date for certain in her memory.

But Rishid, Ishizu, and I are all stunned speechless. Two days before Christmas would make it the twenty-third. And that's my birthday.


End file.
